"Edward, love," I gently explained. "You're BETTER than Harry Potter. A bajillion times better. I mean, yes, he's smart and he's a wizard, and he does have Ginny, but, darling E, YOU have millions of thirteen-year-old girls and their (mumblemumble pathetic, sad losermumble) mothers in thrall to you."
He fixed me with a stony glare. (Ha! See how I did that?)
"WHAT," he growled, "was that middle part?"
I blushed, knowing he was watching the blood flow from my neck up to my hairline. "Erm, nothing. Nothing at all!" I insisted. "Not a thing! Just, um, clearing my throat!" Then I straightened his cape and said brightly, "I know! Why don't I go get my eyeliner and I'll draw a scar on you?"
*********
Why do I feel compelled to have Flat E speak in a snotty French accent a la Inspector Clouseau? Because, no doubt, Edward speaks impeccable French, with a perfect Parisian accent.
